


Strike My Mouth with Burning Coal

by giorgiakerr



Series: Inked [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, My First Destiel Fanfic, Season/Series 08 Spoilers, Tattooed Castiel, Tattooed Dean, There's A Tag For That, Wing Kink, Wingfic, tattooporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giorgiakerr/pseuds/giorgiakerr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Dean suggested that Cas get a tattoo, Cas completely ignored him. The second time, Cas looked at him like he was an ant (and he supposed that to Cas, he probably was). The third time, Cas glared and told him they had more important things to worry about. Which, admittedly, was true, given that they were actually in the middle of a case (and also Sam was maybe dying).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strike My Mouth with Burning Coal

**Author's Note:**

> Set some time in mid-ish season eight. This is a new/experimental style for me, so I hope it works. Vague plot, mostly porn.
> 
> Isaiah 6: _"And flee unto me doth one of the seraphs, and in his hand a burning coal (with tongs he hath taken [it] from off the altar), and he striketh against my mouth, and saith: ‘Lo, this hath stricken against thy lips, And turned aside is thine iniquity, And thy sin is covered.’"_

The first time Dean suggested that Cas get a tattoo, Cas completely ignored him. The second time, Cas looked at him like he was an ant (and he supposed that to Cas, he probably was). The third time, Cas glared and told him they had more important things to worry about. Which, admittedly, was true, given that they were actually in the middle of a case (and also Sam was maybe dying).

It took some convincing. Cas was loathe to mark his vessel permanently, and Dean had to mention several times that he could just mojo it away whenever he felt like it. (And besides, who were they kidding? Jimmy Novak wasn't getting his body back any time soon. Or ever, probably). Dean wondered whether Jimmy had even survived all the shit that had happened to Cas – battling Hell, exploding, Leviathans, imploding, Purgatory.

Cas hadn't mentioned Jimmy since Famine had made him eat like three hundred cheeseburgers. And if he had survived, was he whole enough to know anything that had happened? Maybe Cas had built his own wall, sheltering Jimmy from... all that. (For all he knew, Jimmy and Cas had tea parties in their shared, pretty, messed up head every Sunday after church).

So Dean never asked, partially because he wasn't sure he really wanted to know either way, and partially because if Jimmy was actually gone, then Cas probably felt guilty about it (and while he really probably deserved some of the guilt he felt, it wasn't like Dean wanted to see him suffer. Not always). Besides, he wasn't sure that Jimmy would be totally okay with all the things Dean wanted to do to his body, and that made him feel kind of rapey if he thought about it too much. (He made a mental note to ask Cas if things ever managed to go that far. Just in case).

Eventually, though, Cas's resolve broke, and he admitted that he was curious (“I admit that I am curious”). The next time he showed up at the bunker, Dean didn't even bother letting him in, he just jutted his chin toward the Impala.

Cas paused with his hand half way to the back door handle and glanced at Dean, who just stared at him half way between laughter and pity.

“Can I sit in the front seat?”

Dean wanted to say no, just to see Cas's indignation, but he looked so much like a child (a child who expected to be rejected, which was a whole other thing altogether) that he half-smiled.

“Just this once,” he said, and Cas tried not to look as elated as he probably was. “And don't touch anything.”

Cas placed himself gently into the front seat, as though he half expected it to disappear from under him and clasped his hands in his lap. Dean tried not to laugh. They actually managed to get to paved road before Cas unclasped his hands. (By the time they got to the city, Cas had ground the gears trying to shift her into third, changed the radio station four times, and burned his cuff with the cigarette lighter. Dean patted the dash, muttering apologies).

Cas disappeared from the front seat when Dean circled the block, looking for somewhere to park. Dean just rolled his eyes as he shifted into reverse, reveling in her purr before he shut the engine off.

He entered the shop to find Castiel carefully removing his ridiculous number of layers (it was at least eighty-five degrees outside) and Dean tried to watch as casually as possible.

“This is my friend, Dean.”

Dean tried to focus on the fact that Cas had actually thought to introduce him, not on the way he paused just a little before the word _friend_. He smiled half-heartedly at the guy, silently thankful that he'd already gloved up (shaking hands was dumb and awkward, and he'd be happy to never do it again). The guy just nodded towards a chair that Dean accepted without a second thought.

It occurred to him that this was the first time he had seen Cas without clothes on, which was kind of ridiculous, given, well, everything. Cas's torso was... good. He tried to think of a better word, but came up short (or possibly blew a fuse). Cas's shoulders were broader than they looked under the oversized clothes, waist narrower, stomach and arms firmer. _Well done, Bible nerd_ , he thought, again pushing aside the niggling questions about Jimmy.

He felt heat in his cheeks (all of them) and cleared his throat, turning to examine the prints and graffiti on the walls of the shop. It looked like every tattoo parlour he'd ever been in: kinda metal, kinda punk, entirely art, and just a little bit queer. The familiarity was comforting as he recalled hours spent in chairs exactly like the one Cas was now straddling.

He'd clearly missed the entire conversation because Cas was _straddling_ the chair, leaning against the back at an angle, arms wrapping around to curl his fingers over the headrest. Dean had assumed (although in retrospect he wasn't sure why) that Cas would get something that didn't require partial nudity. Or at least something that he could see himself before he mojoed it away. He'd half expected him to make Dean choose the design. He certainly hadn't expected all this.

He heard the cap of an inkwell popped open, and held Cas's gaze as the artist asked, “Ready?”

“Yes.” He looked as though he might say something else, but then the buzzing started, muffled slightly against his skin, and his eyes widened. His lips parted in a silent gasp that might have been the hottest thing Dean had ever seen.

Dean knew that Castiel could heal himself so fast that the artist would probably run screaming. And somehow that made it kind of hotter to watch. His face was pinched slightly, mouth a hard line, brows drawn together. He'd felt worse pain, of course (what with the constant torture and death that they seemed to find), but he was _feeling_ this, concentrating on it. Occasionally, his knuckles whitened against the headrest.

Dean wondered how much Cas could feel, whether he was letting himself feel everything, or just enough to make himself seem human (or human enough to pass). He wasn't entirely sure what Cas felt in general. Did he feel the burn of sun or the bite of snow? He certainly never showed any signs of it if he did. He could feel pain, but his threshold was apparently astronomical. Of course, this also begged the question of whether or not Cas could feel pleasure. Could he feel it like humans, like Dean? The taste of good coffee, or the satisfaction of a good meal, or stretching sore muscles first thing in the morning. Whiskey-burn or sex or hot showers or orgasm.

From this angle, Dean couldn't see exactly what was being done, but it started high on Cas's neck, and took forever. It didn't take long, however, for Dean to let his eyes close, Cas's face of concentration (and the thought of orgasm) too much to deal with, and the sound of the tattoo gun (and the thought of orgasm) too monotonous.

He jerked awake when he heard his name, and Cas was silent all the way back to the bunker.

Later that night, Cas left. He didn't explain himself, just looked with unreadably wide eyes and said, “I have to go.”

And he did. Sam just rolled his eyes and went back to his laptop, mumbling something like, “Yeah, later.”

Dean tried to convince himself not to care, not to wonder whether he'd had anything to do with it. He told himself that this wasn't unusual, that Cas had been acting weird and sketchy and skittery for months, actually, but that kind of just made him worry more. Sometimes even when he was there he didn't really feel... _there_. It sounded stupid, but that was the only way he could describe it: the usually overly-intense stare going glassy and distant for just a few seconds. It was creepy, and it kind of reminded him of Sam's Lucifer hallucinations, which kind of made it terrifying.

He shoved the thought into the back of his mind (with everything else he didn't want to think about) and took a beer to bed.

The day after that was an entire day with no case and no Cas, and nothing to occupy himself other than Sam looking like he'd had the flu for a year. He'd hovered around him all day, until Sam had snapped and sent him away to do, “Literally anything except what you're doing.”

So he retired to his room, idly flipping through old skin mags (with a concerning lack of interest) until he gave up. He pulled his headphones off.

“Cas?” he tried. Waited, nothing. “Cas.”

Silence. Sighing, he replaced his headphones and got up to put the magazines away. It occurred to him that maybe he should have done that before calling Cas, not after. On the other hand, Cas's scared-but-judgemental face was always kind of amusing.

When he turned back around, Cas was standing (very shirtless) in the middle of the room. Dean swore (and would swear that he definitely _didn't_ jump). He tried to glare, but Cas was shirtless and that was kind of making him a little uncomfortable and a lot confused. He cleared his throat.

“Dude, I think you, uh, forgot something,” he said, raising his eyebrows pointedly at Cas's pecs (torso, dammit). Cas had the balls to look embarrassed.

“You didn't sound distressed, so I assumed you called me to see my tattoo.” He said it as though the word tasted strange. “Was I incorrect?”

“About what?” Not his best.

“Are you in danger, Dean?” he asked, although his voice was hard and it wasn't actually a question at all. Cas might have been mocking him, but he squinted around the room thoroughly anyway.

“No, yeah, you're right, the tattoo,” he managed, because it sounded better than, _I was bored and we're out of sandwich stuff and Sam's being a meganerd_.

Cas frowned at him (the same way Cas always frowned at him), and then slowly turned his back.

Dean wasn't exactly an _expert_ , but he was fairly certain that the tattoo should have taken more than one session. He wondered whether Cas somehow sped up the process, whammied the guy with the gun, or whether he simply healed himself fast enough to go back the next day. It sent a pang through him to think that Cas would go without him, which was absolutely stupid, because there was no reason that he shouldn't. (Really, for two people whose lives basically revolved around each other at the end of the world and _all the time_ , they didn't actually see that much of each other).

So standing behind Cas like this was surreal. The tattoo was completed and completely healed. It was narrow and symmetrical from his hairline, along his spine, and flared slightly across his lower back to a point, like an arrowhead disappearing under his slacks. (Like a fucking arrow pointing directly to his ass, actually).

He was just about to reach out and touch, when Cas said calmly, “Step back.”

He didn't even question it, lowering his hand and taking a few small paces away. Maybe he'd overstepped (or maybe Cas was having one of those small glassy-eyed strokes right now), who knew. But then he heard a familiar sound, only louder, and a rush of air that smelled sweet and rich hit him square on.

And then there was Cas.

He wondered if he could call him that, like this.

So instead he just whispered, “Fuck.”

It probably wasn't as reverent as it should have been, but what else do you say? ( _You got quite a pair on you_ , popped briefly into his mind, but that was gross always, and it didn't feel like the time for jokes).

Cas – _Castiel_ – just stood there, stretching, testing his wings (his fucking _wings_ ) in the unfamiliar air.

They were huge, and it felt like he was surrounded by Castiel's presence. It sounded dumb, but he knew what a presence felt like, and Castiel's felt like it was smothering him. Drowning him in honey and the smell of leather, or cheeseburgers and beer, because actually it felt incredible. It felt like a sin to think it (it definitely was), but it was like having someone sit on his face – he craved oxygen, knew better than to continue, but he held their thighs and ass tighter against him anyway.

And now he had that image: Cas arching above him, wings thrown out. The weight of them would push Cas down against his tongue, lips, or forward onto his elbows, mouth wrapping around –

This felt so wrong, like it was dirtier than anything Dean had ever done, and he'd done some shit. Maybe it was – he wasn't really sure where fucking a winged angel fell in terms of kinky. It wasn't that he hadn't thought about it before, but that the awe he felt in the presence of Castiel was probably hard-wired into humans at the beginning of time and probably wasn't supposed to be lustful. (If they ever found God, he'd punch him right in the dick, but he might remember thank him for this after).

Finally, Cas spoke. “I am sorry, I can only show you two.”

Dean almost choked. “There are more?”

“I am a seraph,” he said as though Dean was being stupid. Maybe he was. “In my true form I have six wings, but they cannot be supported by a human vessel. This is my... compromise. My primaries alone.”

He sounded uncertain and Dean suddenly realised that Cas was actually apologising. He took a step closer and it was like there was heat radiating from Cas's back. He seemed to feel it, too, because his feathers ruffled briefly, adjusting as he stood taller. He was still drowning, and momentarily kind of grateful (although not really at all) that there were only two. Six... six was too many. He didn't think he could handle six, although he was desperately curious.

Inhaling deeply, Dean just took it all in. Cas's bare back, his messy hair. Feathered wings such a rich brown they were almost black, strangely similar in colour to his hair, although they shone the colour of dried blood when the light hit them. Was that a decision that went into finding a vessel, he wondered? Did angels have different coloured wings, like humans did hair and skin? Were Anna's wings the bright orange of her hair? Were Balthazar's the colour of sand and gold? Could a celestial wavelength (could Castiel, the seraph) even see or have colour? He had no goddamn idea, but he wasn't about to ask, not now.

He tore his eyes away, to the tattoo between Cas's wings. Dean wanted to lick, bite a line along it, mark the skin himself, down (down, down, down) from his neck to his tailbone. Wanted to tear off his ill-fitting slacks and mark his pale skin until Cas was begging him for more.

He didn't. He just reached out a hand, and touched where feathers met flesh. He heard Cas inhale sharply and instantly pulled his hand away.

“Sorry, I figured it wouldn't hurt anymore.” His voice sounded harsh and lame in the otherwise silent room. It occurred to him that while the tattoo was healed, his wings had just torn new holes in his body. Besides which, they looked heavy, and Cas's muscles were still only human. Cas might have laughed.

“If you were hurting me you would be forced to your knees before me in prostration.”

He thought it was a threat, or a warning, but it might have been a joke. Either way, Dean felt a flush heat his face and chest, spreading directly down to his cock. He took another step forward so that if he leaned in, he would be pressed against Cas's back.

Dean tried again, this time with both hands, and the noise that Cas made was definitely not pain, and it went straight to Dean's spank bank. (He should have felt worse about that than he did). His hands slipped through the feathers and they were satin against his calloused fingers. Satin, but somehow tough, as though their strength ( _Cas's_ strength) was written into every feather from the largest at their tips to the down underneath.

He dug his thumbs gently into the white skin between black ink and feathers, as though massaging his shoulders (which was exactly what he was doing, he supposed). Cas almost shouted, before he managed to close his mouth tightly – Dean could see his jaw clench. Cas's hands were fisted at his sides, and his wings shivered occasionally.

Dean stepped in closer, barely touching, and smirked over Cas's shoulder. He was hard (harder than Dean, even) which was kind of difficult to process, so he didn't bother. He let one hand trail down Cas's spine, palm flat against the tattoo at his lower back, skimming across to grab his hip. The other hand reached up, following black into his nape (pulling his hair just enough to hear a tiny groan) then curving around his jaw. His fingers spread across his cheek and jaw. His middle finger found itself between parted lips and Cas let his teeth graze across it.

Before he could make a dick of himself moaning like a virgin, Dean tugged their hips (thighs to thigh, ass to cock, back to chest) together. He turned Cas's head towards him and smashed their mouths together. It wasn't gentle, but from the way Cas's wings twitched against his chest, the way he pushed back into him, that wasn't a bad thing. Far from it actually because Dean was pretty sure he needed this like he needed air – like he could finally breathe after being smothered by Cas's presence for so long.

Cas's teeth his his, and he seemed a little startled by Dean's tongue against his own. His wings brushed against Dean's nipples through his shirt and he yanked Cas's hips back into him in surprise. Judging by Cas's desperate, not-at-all-graceful lips against his, he was pretty sure that the last person Cas had kissed was Meg (and yes, he'd been a little jealous, but goddamn it was hot, the way he'd shoved her into the wall right in front of them).

And he'd never really understood the virgin thing before, but damn he wanted so much to defile Cas, to be the first one to leave a hickey, a scratch, a stretched burn (because apparently he was turning into a teenager _and_ a pervert). The thought reminded him, brought out the thought flashing in the back of his brain. He pulled back, releasing Cas's face just a little.

“Cas, are you – I mean, is Jimmy... does he...”

“Jimmy is not here,” Cas said, sounding so sure it was almost enough. He smiled (smirked, actually, the asshole) ever so slightly. “And if he were, he would not be averse,” was the last thing Dean expected him to say, but there it was.

Dean still wasn't entirely convinced until Cas growled (literally _growled_ ) his name into his mouth, and Dean answered something like, “Bed. Now.”

And then there they were. He wasn't actually sure how they got there, but he didn't remember walking. He ground into Cas's ass, and realised that he was naked. That they were both naked, actually, and as Cas groaned Dean swore. The thought that Cas had just mojoed them there was a little funny (a lot funny, really), but also incredibly hot, because Cas had mojoed himself _face-down under Dean_ , mojoed their clothes off, and might have been blaspheming against the sheets.

Dean pushed one knee up under Cas's, spreading him and giving himself some leverage. He held Cas's wrists above their heads, pushing them down into the mattress as he stroked himself against Cas's ass. Letting himself relax against Cas's back, he buried his face in his shoulder. Jesus, he was so fucking far gone already it was pathetic.

Lube, he needed lube, and a condom. Right now. Right. Goddamn. Now, before he forgot everything he'd ever known. And he must have said that out loud, because suddenly there was cold plastic on the sheets against his knuckles and Dean didn't hold back his laughter this time. He huffed across Cas's neck, bit his jaw, licked up to his ear, grazed teeth over his earlobe.

Cas was writhing under him, wings flexing, hips pushing into the mattress and back against Dean (which was absurd because Cas was a fucking _angel_ of the fucking _Lord_ and Dean was pretty sure neither of them were allowed to do this. But they weren't allowed to stop the apocalypse, either, and that had turned out to be a good idea in the end – sort of).

Dean felt for the small bottle, grabbing it and the foil square next to it. He wasn't actually sure where Cas had gotten them (he kind of hoped that he'd just stolen them from someone, partly because that would be hilarious, but mostly because it freaked him out a bit to think that he knew where Dean kept his). He didn't dwell on it, though, because Cas was lifting his hips off the bed to push against Dean and he might have short-circuited something. Again.

He finally got to lick, bite down Cas's spine, pausing to tongue where Cas's wings started. He heard the sheets tear above him, the small pant of wings as they fluttered, the noise that Cas made, deep in his chest. Dean felt the flex of his shoulder muscles, the rumbling voice against his lips. He ground into Cas's thigh, the rough hair tickling a little against tight, sensitive skin. His breath caught as he continued, tossing the lube and condom onto the bed between his legs and raising himself on his knees to keep himself from coming on Cas's thighs like a fucking virgin. Like Cas.

The thought lingered again, and he wondered how Cas was dealing. He'd never had sex before, but Jimmy had (probably, he corrected, Jimmy had probably had sex, because church monkeys were immune to the joys of life, and maybe Jimmy had to be _pure_ or some shit to be a vessel. Although, with those abs? He was probably getting some). Dean wondered whether Cas actually had any idea what the fuck was going on and he paused with his fingers digging into Cas's hips, thumbs spreading him open. He was about to ask, when Cas did that growling thing that sounded like his name and the purr of the Impala again. It wasn't Jimmy, not at all, not even a little. It was Castiel.

It was a plea and a warning and when he did it this time, his wings rose, spread out like gleaming rust and blood and _power_ , and Dean obeyed instantly. He pushed one thumb against the black point of the tattoo at Cas's tail bone, then down (down, down, down) between Cas's cheeks to his perineum, lingering to press against his hole. Cas pulled his raised knee up further (he was more flexible than Dean might have guessed). The shift turned his hips slightly to the side, and Dean wondered whether he was just uncomfortable pinned against the mattress or whether he was as far gone (or still as hard) as Dean and his body knew how to control itself.

Either way, he pressed his thumb against Cas's perineum and his tongue against his hole. Cas pressed back, groaned. The image from earlier came back to him, Dean on his back, held down, Cas's ass grinding down against his face, feathers tickling his skin, mouth around his cock, arm under his thigh and wet fingers pushing _in_. Not now, he told himself. Next time (oh, God, there better be a next time).

His balls ached, Cas almost whimpered, and he stopped teasing. He fucked Cas roughly with his tongue, wet, messy, filthy and probably the best thing he'd ever done. He slid his hand up Cas's thigh to his knee, pushing it further, and felt feathers brush against the back of his hand. His cock twitched at the warm touch. He pushed a finger inside Cas, and the noise he made was not entirely human. Dean smirked at the sound, even though his ears rang with it, and Cas's wings twitched in time with Dean's thrusts, as though trying to urge him further.

Reaching for the lube with his free hand, he curled his finger and Cas's wings beat, his hips jerked up forcefully as he cried out. It sounded almost like pain, like it was too much, and Dean held the small bottle between his thumb and forefinger and placed his free hand between Cas's shoulders, leaning up (and regrettably away). It was supposed to be calming, but Cas's wings drew together slightly under his touch and he could see how flushed and focused Cas's face was, even shoved into the mattress (and he was pretty sure there was a wet patch beneath his mouth, and that was... Jesus, he was hard).

“Cas.” He concentrated on stilling himself, trying to will Cas to do the same. Maybe this was too far. He had no idea what this felt like for Cas, for someone who wasn't human but experiencing a human body, and he was pretty sure that Cas wasn't exactly an expert, either. Cas whined when he stopped, and Dean said his name again, firmer. “Relax, man.”

“You do not seem very relaxed,” he retorted. Although gruff and breathless, it was more of an accusation than an observation. And maybe Dean was being a hypocrite, but he wasn't about to let Cas hate this. Or, for that matter, kill both of them and destroy half a county by accident because he lost control. (He wasn't sure if that was possible, but from what Sam had told him, seraphim were basically _made_ of fire and righteous douchebaggery, and that didn't really bode well. At the very least he preferred his eyes not on fire).

“Yeah, but I'm not the one with the wings – ” he couldn't help curling his finger again, totally counter-productively, and Cas whimpered, “ – or the power to turn your brain to Jell-o if I forget to use my inside voice.”

It felt strange that it felt so normal to be teasing Cas. He was literally inside him, his ragged breaths ruffling through his _feathers_ , and here he was being a sarcastic asshole, because that's what they did. Well, that's what Dean did, and on cue, Cas turned his face so that he could speak.

“You are afraid that I will lose control?” He loosened his grip on the sheets, his voice steady, his emotion unreadable and Dean regretted bringing it up.

“Will you?” He pulled his finger out to the first knuckle, and pushed back in slowly. Cas gasped, a shiver went down his spine and across his wings, but the hint of a smile kicked at the corner of his eye.

“No.” Dean did it again and Cas added, “At least, not in the manner you fear.”

Dean's laugh was visible against the black-red ombre of his wings. “Good, because I wanna make you scream, but I also want to not bleed from my ears.” It wasn't his best, but it seemed to get the point across, because this time when he pushed in, Cas (the little cheat) tightened around his finger. Leaning back and popping the cap off the lube, Dean added a second finger.

He chucked the bottle somewhere within reach and wrapped his free hand around his own cock briefly, just enough to remind himself to wait. It didn't work.

As if he knew what it did to Dean, Cas brought his wings together behind him, the backs of his feathers brushing against Dean's skin (his thighs and ass, his back and arms, his neck and shoulders) and catching in his hair. It was such a damn small sensation. Such a light touch, barely-there, but he felt it everywhere, hot and sharp. He felt it again, that sort of (totally) overwhelming presence. Castiel, the seraph.

He slid a third finger into Cas, needing, again feeling like he was drowning, gasping for air and Cas was the answer. He suddenly had no intentions of drawing this out, of making Cas (or himself) wait. He thrust his fingers into him, adding a little more lube (because no, he didn't want to wait, but he also wasn't a tool) and tore open the condom packet with his teeth. He spat the foil somewhere over his shoulder and crooked his fingers once, twice more before removing them. Cas's wings fluttered disapprovingly, and it was definitely strange that they showed emotion (or that Dean could read it).

“Patience is a virtue,” he said, as much to bide the time it took him to roll the condom on as anything.

Cas may have muttered something like, “Fuck virtue,” into the mattress (but that may also have just been Dean's imagination) but anything intelligible was lost as Dean bit his ass cheek, hard enough to mark it. Hard enough to hurt, and he finally (fucking _finally_ ) ran a hand along his cock, the lube cold through the latex. He grunted, trying not to moan too pathetically, and leaned forward to run his cock against Cas's ass.

He wiped his hands on the bedspread and reached up to brace himself over Cas's shoulder, one hand grasping a wrist again. He felt Cas flex his fingers under the pressure. Feathers tickled his nipples, the sensation shooting right to his groin, and he used his free hand to guide himself in. He held a breath as Cas tensed, wings flaring. He relaxed and Dean exhaled, pulling out just a little and then Cas swore (actually, genuinely, human-ly swore) as he pushed all the way back in. Cas made a noise so ridiculous that Dean wasn't even aware of thrusting again (one or two or seven times).

Dean fit his thighs alongside Cas's, one leg extended, one knee pushing up, and the new angle made Cas's back arch. His hands were no longer grappling at the sheets, but pushing him back, onto Dean (and defiling Cas was definitely the best, hottest thing he'd ever done).

Dean bit into the new black between Cas's shoulders, between his wings. He watched Cas's palms push against the sheets, burying his face into the mattress again. Dean removed his hand from Cas's wrist and leaned back onto his knees just enough to start thrusting harder, deeper, and Cas was falling apart beneath him. His wings pulled in, the joints a sharp angle above his head. Dean held himself up with one hand, and the muscles of Cas's wing twitched violently under his other hand as though all his power was contained, tensed within them. (That thought should have terrified Dean, but actually, he just grunted, “Jesus, fuck,” into Cas's shoulder blades).

Cas was a mess beneath him. It wasn't like he hadn't seen him lose it before. He'd beaten the shit out of Dean in an alleyway (which Dean knew he kind of deserved). He'd seen Cas literally break apart, lose every shred of humility and humanity that he might have had. He'd seen him die, and he'd seen him wish he were dead. But this time was different because this time it didn't scare him. He wasn't afraid of Cas, and he wasn't afraid of losing Cas (not because of this, anyway), and that was everything.

Cas pushed himself onto his knees just enough for Dean to lean forward and wrap his arm under his chest, forehead resting between his wings. He grasped at skin, a little surprised (although in hindsight he wasn't sure why) to feel hair on Cas's chest. He flicked his fingers over a nipple and thrust hard once before forcing himself to slow down. Cas's voice was dangerously on the verge of not-quite-human, and Dean was a little concerned by how much he didn't care (it was a lot).

He was so goddamn close, felt like he'd been hard for days, and even though he hadn't been entirely serious about making Cas scream, he was starting to like the idea more and more. Maybe it was because Dean was used to jerking off silently with his brother in the next room, or fucking in less than ideal places for noisy sex; maybe it was just because Cas was holding on to his own promise – he was losing control (Dean was only a tiny bit concerned, now, that he'd burn them all alive). Maybe (and this was probably the reason) he just wanted to hear Cas scream.

For now, Cas growled his name again ( _Jesus, fuck_ ) and pushed his hips back, up, bringing his knees under him. (And Cas was either less clueless than Dean had thought, or more inclined to allow instinct to take over). Cas moved so forcefully that Dean groaned, huffed in effort as he righted himself with both hands on Cas's hips.

The new angle was clearly magic, because Cas made a keening sound, somehow both thunderously low and ear-piercingly high (by this point Sam was probably getting concerned) which Dean didn't think to question. It made his body fucking vibrate ( _Jesus, fuck_ , that was new and he wanted it to happen again, maybe forever) and his head spin.

Dean thrust harder, faster, and Cas didn't shut up after that (words, moans, _Dean_ ), muffled only by the mattress. He could have sworn that his wings basically glowed, redder than before, burning coal as Dean's vision went a little blurry. He removed one hand from Cas's hip, planning on reaching around, jerking him off hard until he accidentally destroyed half the county. Then Cas's wings pulled in close to his body, and flared out fully like a ripple of fire, and Dean couldn't help himself. He buried his hand in Cas's feathers and pulled (not gently) and Cas's cry was definitely loud enough for Sam to hear.

He ran his other hand up from Cas's hip, following the tattoo to his neck and into his hair, pushing him into the mattress (which was definitely _Jesus, fuck_ wet under his mouth). Cas's moans were a little more desperate than before (a little more _Dean_ ), and Dean steadied himself with a hand between his shoulders. Blunt fingernails left red crescents against his skin. His other hand splayed in Cas's trembling feathers, curled fingers pulled once more, and Cas screamed.

It felt like a physical blow when Cas's orgasm hit Dean, like an actual goddamned _wave_ of pleasure (which he totally never read about in girly romance novels he totally didn't read). It rolled off Cas, off his wings like heat (and _Jesus_ ), as the sound vibrated against him, inside him, and _fuck_. He came with a sound that tore itself out of his chest, out of the depths of the goddamn earth.

Cas collapsed onto the mattress (which was probably pretty gross, but he didn't seem to notice) and Dean followed, not quite ready to end this. Cas was moaning quietly under him, suddenly intensely human (wings and all), and Dean wondered if he knew he was doing it. It was fucking adorable, and he regretted the thought immediately. He let his forehead rest between Cas's shoulders, resisting the urge to place a kiss there. Instead, he bit gently at a wing, and Cas's whole body jerked under him. Dean laughed despite the gasp that drew from him, and pulled out.

Cas took a deep breath, as though he was about to say something, when there was a loud bang at the door. Sam called out Dean's name, weak but desperate (at least the Hell flu hadn't killed him, Dean supposed, because that was about the only upside he could find to this situation). Cas disappeared from beneath him (that asshole) and Dean swore as he hit the mattress, still half-hard. Apparently Sam heard that, though, because he burst through the door, gun drawn.

Dean just closed his eyes and pursed his lips. He heard the safety re-engaged as Sam lowered his gun and groaned disapprovingly.

“Dammit, Dean.” It was a little bit long-suffering if Dean wasn't mistaken. Sam stuttered a few admonishing consonants (and swore a few times) as he turned to leave. Dean scrambled up the bed and tugged a pillow over his crotch, pulling a face at the stickiness of the condom. The movement sent something flying, and Sam seemed to notice before Dean did, because he was now watching a black-red feather drift back down onto the bed.

Sam squinted, Dean squinted back.

Sam's face hardened, then (amusement and disgust and resignation), looking more together than he had in days.

“Never tell me.” And then he was gone.

Dean snorted a laugh as he stood, knotting the condom and dropping it into the trash can. Out of habit he pulled on a pair of underwear and a tee shirt (he'd made the mistake of sleeping naked once – a ghost had laughed at him, and a boy had nearly died), and gingerly pulled the dirty blanket off the end of the bed. He'd deal with that tomorrow (along with all the other shit he was refusing to think about like, actually what the fuck had just happened?).

He pulled the sheet half way over him and closed his eyes, remembering (despite himself) the feel of Cas's feathers against his lips and fingers. He grunted, swore, and got up again, sweeping his eyes across the floor until they fell on blood and coal. It was a struggle not to run the feather across his lips, instead settling for running it through his fingers and placing it on the desk underneath the one photo he kept. (Later, Sam raised an eyebrow at it, and Dean just said, “You look like shit. Let's go.”)

Suddenly exhausted, Dean threw himself back onto the bed (which certainly didn't smell like honey and fire and sex that he probably shouldn't have had) and let himself relax.

The first time Dean had suggested that Cas get a tattoo, it had either been the best or the worst idea he'd ever had, and he found (despite himself) that he didn't really care which.


End file.
